Twentieth Street seemed a long way up, to be sure. But there was an odd, rather oldish house, with a two-story ell that seemed to have been added as an after-thought. There was a stable and quite a garden. It had been considered rather a country house in its inception.

Joe insisted that it was just the thing. He could have an office and a library, and a sleeping-room overhead, without disturbing the family.

Mrs. Underhill declared there was twice too much room; and if any of the other boys should marry and go away--

"There's only Ben. I am a fixture; and it will be years before Jim reaches that tempting period. Oh, I think you need not worry!" comforted the Doctor.

Hanny was glad to go with everybody else. They had one sad sweet time at the Deans, talking over old days and the tea in the back-yard, when there had been Nora and the pussy, and the one who was not. It was rather sad to outgrow childhood. Ah, how merry they had been! What a simple idyllic memory this was to be for all her later years! Mrs. Reed always lived in First Street to her; and Tudie Dean used to go up and down the street, a blessed, beautiful ghost. The little girl was quite sure she would not be afraid to clasp her white hand, if she should meet her wandering about those sacred precincts. She could not have put her idea into Longfellow's beautiful lines; but it haunted her in the same shape of remembrance.

"All houses wherein men have lived and died Are haunted houses."

They went down to the Jasper house also. There had been a family of children to tramp over the flower-beds and leave debris about. There was no pretty striped awning, no wheeling-chair, no slim, picturesque negro lad, and no ladies in light lawns sitting about. It looked common-place.

"We can write Ichabod on it," said Charles, half regretfully.

Hanny asked Joe why they should; and he showed her the verse, "Thy glory has departed."

"The glory has departed from the whole street," she said, glancing around. The new-comers were of a different class. No one swept the debris up to the crown of the street any more; and the city street-sweepers were infrequent visitors.

"It will be beginning all over again," Dr. Hoffman said to his brother-in-law. "It seems a pity to waste so much endeavour. Yet if you _can_ wait, the practice will be better worth while."

"It wouldn't be the fair thing to crowd in on young Dr. Fitch. He did suggest a partnership, but I thought I would rather strike out for myself. And I prefer having all my interests at home. Mother begins to miss the children that have gone out; and there were so many of us."

When Mrs. Underhill looked back, she always thought those early years in First Street were among the happiest of her life. They were broader and richer than the first wedded years. They could not keep together always.

She wanted her children to know the sweetness of life and love. Steve and Margaret were very happy. John and his wife had supped of sorrow; but they were young and had each other; and children would come to restore beauty for ashes, and the oil of joy for mourning.

She was delighted with Joe's decision. That night, when Joe had come home a very ghost of himself, and dropped down on Hanny's bed, because he hadn't strength to go up another pair of stairs, and she had clasped her arms about him and cried, in her terror: "Oh, Joe, my dear son, is it cholera?" had been an awful moment for her.

"No, mother dear; but if I can't have a few hours' rest, I shall die of fatigue. Just let me sleep, but watch me well."

She had sat beside him the rest of the night, from midnight to morning, counting his pulse now and then, which showed no indication of collapse.

Other mothers had their sons snatched from them,--mothers who were tender and worthy, and who loved as fervently as she did.

When he awoke at the next noon, she felt as if he had been given back to her out of a great danger. And she was glad now to have him plan for the home-interest, glad there would be several years before she was called upon to share him with any other woman.

So they said good-bye to the old house again, and placed their household gods in a new home. They had gone farther than any of the others, though they were nearer Margaret and Dolly. The Deans were lower down and on Second Avenue. Up above them were great open spaces. They had two lots, which gave them a grassy space beside the drive. The lot being deeper than usual, they could have a little garden where the fruit-trees did not shade. There was a tall, gnarled old pear-tree, and they found it bore excellent fruit. Right by the porch, in a lovely southern exposure, was a delicious nectarine.

The little girl was deeply interested in Joe's house, as she began to call it. A door opened from the main hall, and one quite outside from the flagged path. That would be the patients' entrance, when they began to come. Joe went up to Yonkers and exhumed some old furniture. There was a queer, brass-studded, leather-covered sofa, with high roll arms, and a roll at the back that suggested a pillow. There were two small spindle-legged tables; some high-backed, oaken chairs, rudely carved, and almost black with age; and a curious old _escritoire_ that was said to have come from France with the French grandmother who had landed with the emigrants at New Rochelle.

His office was plainly appointed, with an oil-cloth on the floor, a row of shelves for jars of medicines; for even then many doctors compounded their own prescriptions. There was a plain business-desk, a table, and some chairs, and a small book-case. All the odd old things were to go in his sitting-room.

Across one end, he had it filled in with book-shelves. One corner was for the little girl. And there was to be a special chair for her, so she could come in and study her lessons, or read or talk to her dear Doctor Joe.

Mrs. French made a splendid addition to the room in a large Oriental rug that Doctor Joe valued more highly as the years went on. For then we were getting bright-hued carpets from French and English looms, and these dull old things were not in any great favour. Only it was so thick and soft, the little girl said it was good enough for a bed.

Joe laughed. "I daresay I shall take many a nap on it. You must make me a nice pillow-cushion, out of some of your bits of silk."

People made real sensible patchwork then, or worked a cover in worsted, with perhaps a pretty bunch of flowers.

The house had a basement-kitchen at the back, and a dumb-waiter like Margaret's. Mrs. Underhill thought at first she shouldn't like it. There was a spacious area, which made Hanny think of Mrs. Dean's in First Street, where they used to play tea.

It took a long while to get settled, somehow. Ben thought it a great way up-town; and he often went to the Whitneys to tea, when he wanted his evening. Jim grumbled a little, too; there were no nice fellows around.

Joe insisted that he had better not hunt up any, but pay strict attention to his studies, for he was falling dreadfully behind. But when Jim had to work or study, he went at it with all his might and main, and generally managed to catch up.

The little girl and her father were perhaps the best pleased. He liked the little garden spot. He was not confining himself very closely to business now. There were so many pretty walks around, for it was still quite rural, and you could find a few wild flowers. There was another very amusing feature farther up-town, and that was the "squatters," with their pigs and goats and geese, and their rich, wonderful brogue, their odd attire, which was in the same style as when they landed. Connemara cloaks had not then attracted the fashionable eye; but the women seemed to wear them to keep out both heat and cold. Red, green, and plaided seemed the favourites. The wide cap-ruffles caught the breeze, for one always found a breeze in this vicinity.

The little girl's happiness was rendered complete by the gift of a beautiful Maltese kitten about half-grown. It had a black nose, and black pads to its feet, and a fashion of pricking up its small ears like a dog. There was a great discussion about a name; and Joe suggested "Major," as she was still fond of military heroes.

One evening Ben said: "Jim, the Whitneys are going over into Jersey on an exploring expedition, to view some curious old places, Cockloft Hall among them. Don't you want to go?"

Jim glanced up lazily. The boys were to play ball, as they often did, on Saturday afternoon.

"Oh, that's the place where the Salmagundi Club used to meet," cried Hanny, with eager interest. "It is in Newark."

"Yes; and there's another queer nest on the Passaic where a great sportsman lives, Henry William Herbert, the Frank Forrester of some stirring adventures. Mr. Whitney is to see him. And there are some other old haunts; Delia was looking them up,--the Kearny house, and an old place that was once used as a sort of fort."

"Dele Whitney goes round just like a boy!" said Jim, disdainfully.

"Well, why shouldn't she go with her brother?"

"Oh, Ben, can't I go with you?" pleaded Hanny.

"Jersey's a queer sort of State," said Jim, teasingly. "The Blue Laws are still in operation. You are not allowed to stay out after dark."

"Are they printed in blue? And you don't mean to stay out after dark, do you, Ben?"

Hanny's expression was so simply honest they all laughed, which rather disconcerted her.

"It is because you feel pretty blue when you have to obey them; and Jersey is out of the United States."

"It just isn't, Mr. Jim!" cried Hanny, indignantly. "It's one of the Middle States."

It was quite the fashion then to laugh at New Jersey, in spite of the geography; though even at that remote date New Jersey peaches were held in high esteem.

"But if you went with Dele Whitney, we shouldn't know when to look for you--hardly where," and Jim winked.

That was an allusion to an old visit at the Museum, when they stayed all the evening, for the same admittance.

"I've half suspected you were the ringleader of that scheme, Jim," said his doctor-brother. "I have a mind to go. One good thing about the Whitneys is that you can invite yourself, and no one takes umbrage."

"Oh, do go!" said Ben; and Hanny came around to give his hand a tender, persuasive squeeze. "I haven't explored the State very much, but it has some curious features. The magnolia and many Southern flowers grow there. I believe almost every kind of mineral, even to gold, is found in the State. And it is rich in historic lore."

"There was Valley Forge," said Hanny, softly.

"Yes, the Delaware River is beautiful. And the Passaic winds half around the State. It is twenty-seven miles by water,--a delightful sail we must take some time, Hanny."

"We shouldn't have time for that now. We are to start at one. Delia'll be glad enough to have you go, Hanny."